We're in our 40's. We're doing IVF and looking into adoption. Game On.

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I was waiting for my period so I could start the IVF process, when instead I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test, by which I mean three pregnancy tests (they’re like Lay’s potato chips, you can never have just one). The doc confirmed it the next day. A few weeks passed and I noticed a few symptoms here and there, mainly that the extra progesterone made me super sleepy and that I was finally getting a decent pair of knockers. We were stunned and happy.

And then the bottom dropped out.

At about 7 weeks I started spotting. Serendipitously, we had our first ultrasound scheduled for the next day so I called them and they happened to have an opening in an hour, so I hopped a cab and hustled over. The doctor could not have been nicer – things measured far too small and there was no cardiac activity, so he felt very strongly that I was in fact having a miscarriage. (I saw him a week later to confirm).

The cab ride home, in retrospect, was cinematic and amazing. Imagine if you will: a grey March day, melodramatic music plays in the background, a lady sits in the backseat of a cab, eyes staring resolutely out the window, her jaw clenched, salty tears streaming down her face. Parker Posey would play me in the movie.

I got home and had a few hours before my husband got home from work, which may have been the hardest, but this allowed me to get out most of those ugly crazy-lady tears by myself. Now ladies (and gentlemen?), we’ve all had them, those ugly ugly farcical boo hoo tears…..the close to hyperventilating, sad sack, feeling way too sorry for yourself cries where tears spring forth Looney Toons style from your tear ducts with such force that they actually don’t even hit your face.

But man those cries are therapeutic.

Thankfully, my window of irrational self-loathing was very narrow. No matter how sad or hurt I’ve been in life, there’s always been the tiny voice that eventually speaks up to remind me that poop occurs.

Physically, it hurt like a mother, so I hit the ibuprofen and pretty much gaffer-taped a heating pad to my gut – but I was so relieved that my body took care of the process and I didn’t have to have a doctor help it along. Luckily, I had nothing on my schedule so I just loaded myself up with good books and bad movies, laid around and let it happen.

I will spare you the physical details but suffice it to say, I got herculean cramps that felt like a legion of tiny coked-up gnomes were grabbing ahold of my innards and playing a rousing game of whack-a-mole.

A few days on the air started to clear, I cried a little less, felt lots better and my husband did the best thing for me: in the morning he simply said, “okay, we’re getting out of bed and we’re starting our day. Come on, let’s go.”

A few days later I called The Russian and we started talking about what to do next.